Kisâkihitin, nitanis means "I love you, my daughter" however many of my people also accept the interpretation, "I love you, my girl". This is a personal story about my mom and I. Her name was Judy Marilyn McCallum. This story is my contribution to National Truth and Reconciliation Day, 2023. One day - maybe - this story will be published among other stories in a book. CW: I cover topics including suicide, sexual assault, child abuse, physical violence, residential school, Indian hospitals, medical experimentation and addiction. The National Indian Residential School Crisis Line provides 24-hour crisis support to former Indian Residential School students and their families toll-free at 1-866-925-4419.
Kisâkihitin, nitanis means "I love you, my daughter" however many of my people also accept the interpretation, "I love you, my girl". This is a personal story about my mom and I. Her name was Judy Marilyn McCallum. This story is my contribution to National Truth and Reconciliation Day, 2023. One day - maybe - this story will be published among other stories in a book.
CW: I cover topics including suicide, sexual assault, child abuse, physical violence, residential school, Indian hospitals, medical experimentation and addiction. The National Indian Residential School Crisis Line provides 24-hour crisis support to former Indian Residential School students and their families toll-free at 1-866-925-4419.
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>> Myrna McCallum : I'm Myrna McCallum, Metis Cree lawyer and passionate promoter of Trauma informed layering. Welcome back to the Trauma Informed Lawyer Podcast. As you know, I believe that law schools and bar courses are missing a critical competency requirement in their curriculum. Trauma Informed Lawyering. Becoming a Trauma Informed lawyer will, among other things, challenge you to critically reflect on your personal behaviors, beliefs and biases, call on you to positively transform the way you approach advocacy, guide your practice to avoid doing further harm to others, and ask that you commit to remaining open to learn new and old knowledge you didn't know you needed before beginning your career. Your education starts right here, right now.
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>> Myrna McCallum: Just a heads up, today's episode discusses some pretty heavy topics. Trauma, sexual violence, physical violence, self harming behaviors, and addiction. So if you're not up for listening to that right now, then you might want to put a pause on today's episode and come back to it when you are in the right mindset to listen. So, National Day of Truth and Reconciliation is coming up in Canada on September 30th. And I've been thinking a lot about survivors and survival, and inevitably I had to come back to my own story. And my story really begins with my mom and her mom and her dad and her dad's mom and on and on. I've decided to start writing down stories because I feel like I'm in my storytelling era. And more importantly, I have grandkids now and they will never know the old versions of me. They will never know my mother because she's now gone. They will never know my grandparents. All these people I still hold memories of, and I want them to know who they come from. And one day, maybe these stories will end up in a book that will be published that everyone can read. Or they might just end up in a, collection that my family keeps and refers to from time to time so they don't forget me. In any event, I'm going to share this story with you. It's about me and it's about my mom, and I hope you enjoy listening to it. The other day, my daughter Blueberry remarked, grandma Judy was a paradox. I agreed. Judy was 15 years old when she got pregnant with me. It's alleged that the man who impregnated m her was a late 30s married white guy who was visiting northern Saskatchewan on a hunting trip. In the years to come, Judy would give me at least five different names. When I asked her who my father was. I inevitably tracked those men down and paid for paternity tests for each of them all. But that one guy agreed to be tested and gave me their DNA. None of those men, however, turned out to be my father. That, one white guy holdout, however, well, he has since died. Therefore, I will never know whether he is 100, in fact, my biological father. So my paternity will have to remain a mystery.
What is not a mystery, however, is that Judy hated the part of me that reminded her of my father was. Or she hated the part of me that reminded her of herself. It's an undisputed fact. Nonetheless, she hated me, except for when she loved me. Hence the paradox remark. I told Blueberry about the day I had a massive panic attack and called JD to take me to the emergency room. It was 1994, and yet, almost 30 years later, I can still hear the surge of joy in her voice, her words cutting me so deep as she pulled up to the entrance of the hospital. I knew nothing about anxiety, panic attacks, or postpartum depression. I was 21 years old. My son Eric was about a month old, and Alicia had just turned three. I was living alone with them in an apartment on the west side of Saskatoon. I began having panic attacks when I was pregnant with Eric. The panic attack started when I fainted in a shopping mall in Regina. After that day, I kept feeling like I couldn't breathe in public spaces. Eventually, public spaces and people freaked me out so much, I just stopped leaving my apartment. I also stopped moving my body because every time I stood up or walked about, I felt so dizzy and so shaky. I was convinced that I was having seizures. The day I had one of the worst panic attacks I have ever had, I called Judy because I believed I needed medical attention. She was my last resort phone call. But I was desperate. She arrived with her friend Nancy, and together they took me and my kids to the emergency room at St. Paul's Hospital. I don't recall the conversation we had on the drive to the hospital. What I do recall, however, is upon arrival outside the doors of the emergency room, Judy said, if you die today, I will dance on your grave. I replied, all, right, well, I don't want to get in the way of your chance at happiness, so take me home. It wasn't a heart attack or a grandma seizure I was having, and in minutes, which felt like hours, I physically felt different, although never better. The panic attacks did not leave me. They continued to hold me hostage in my apartment and sometimes in my bed. After several days of being unable to get up properly, tend to my kids, or wash my body, I decided I didn't Want one more day of the agonizing fear and hopelessness I was feeling. I forced myself up and out of bed. And as I sat at the table thinking about my future, Alicia watched cartoons and Eric slept in his bouncer. I thought about how much I changed in the past year. I no longer recognized myself or my life. Here I was with one more kid. I was no longer in school. I was living on welfare with no job prospects, no dreams, no hopes. And I was 60 pounds heavier. And I was experiencing some mysterious to me, medical issues which I could not name. And the symptoms made me so afraid. Afraid of people, afraid of the public, afraid of open spaces, afraid of standing still, afraid of standing up, and afraid of living. I decided then and there I was going to end my life. My plan was to call Judy and ask her if she would take the kids for an hour so they could get some fresh air while they were out. I decided I would cut my wrists in the bathtub under a running shower. I'd attempted suicide before, so this idea felt like a familiar friend offering me good advice. When Judy arrived, I was sitting silently at the table. She was packing up Eric's diaper bag when she stopped suddenly and looked at me. She looked at me for a minute or two and then she walked down the hall towards the bathroom. She came back with the wet face cloth. She wiped my face with it and said, my girl, I have a bad feeling that if I leave you here today, something is going to happen to you. I said, nothing. Judy walked over to the door and picked up my shoes. She gently slid my shoes onto my feet and said, mate, Dan has nepawi. Please, my girl, stand up. So I did, and she led me to the door where my kids were waiting. Judy took me to a local motel. She said there was a psychic fair in town. The psychics are all working out of different rooms. She loves psychics and believes that some of them were truly gifted. I didn't know if she had been there before, but she seemed to know where she was going. She walked up to a door, knocked, and went inside.
After a minute, she returned to the van. Judy told me to go inside. She said, there's a lady in there and she wants to talk to you. Judy offered to watch the kids in the van while I talked to this stranger. I was so afraid to get out of the van, but somehow I knew that I was supposed to hear what this psychic had to say. When I entered the hotel room, an Eastern European woman with soft features and a warm smile was seated on the sofa. She gestured for me to sit down next to her. She asked me to open my hand so she could read my palm as ah. She held my hand in hers. She closed her eyes, and after a moment, she said, you were going to take your life today. Suddenly, I started to cry in this uncontrollable and heaving sort of way. After about five minutes of wailing and being held by the stranger, she said, let's see what your future has in store for you should you choose to live. The psychic told me I would become a lawyer, and, by the time I reached midlife, I would be independent and financially comfortable. This was remarkable because I had never told my mom that I secretly thought about becoming a lawyer. I only ever talked about the idea once or twice with a high school teacher. The psychic described my first love and the impact that relationship had on me. She spoke of the pain I experienced as a child. And she described my existing children and my future child. She also told me I was carrying a bright light, but I just couldn't see it. She told me about the spirit helpers who visit me and the protection I have around me. By the end of the reading, this psychic had revealed some of my deepest secrets, fears, and dreams. As the years passed, I've forgotten more and more of what she had to say. When the reading was over, she handed me her personal phone number. She invited me to call her if ever I thought about giving up on my life again. I left that room feeling a sliver of hope for my life for the first time in a very long time. When I arrived back at my apartment, I hugged Judy and thanked her for not leaving me alone. I also thanked her for taking me to see that psychic who told me good things. Judy squeezed me really hard and told me she loved me. She also told me I was going to be okay and to never forget that. I can't remember the last time my mom spoke a word of encouragement to me. So her words and her actions on that day saved my life. When Monday came, I called my doctor for the first time. I decided to be fully transparent with how I was feeling. After I told her everything about the physical symptoms I was having and the feelings of hopelessness and terror, she told me I was experiencing depression, anxiety, and agoraphobia. she referred me to a counselor for talk therapy and a cognitive behavioral therapist for group therapy. Not long after Judy and I decided to live together, I moved out of my apartment and we found a duplex on 33rd street in Saskatoon. I committed to therapy and did the exercises, which included simple things like walking to the corner, standing in line at a bank, going into the grocery store to buy one item. Eventually, I was walking around the block, driving the van to the end of the street and back again, signing documents in front of a teller, all without a racing heart, a racing mind, or feeling dizzy. I even applied to and got accepted into a college program. Now, don't get me wrong, I wasn't all better in an instant. It took months and even years to learn how to live with anxiety, panic, and a fear of public places. Eventually, I arrived at a place where I just didn't notice those things anymore. Now and again, however, albeit very rarely, that fear comes back. I view it as a reminder that although I have put it behind me, it still hasn't entirely let me go. For a period of time, my mom was kind and loving toward me. But the loving and supportive version of my mom did not last. It never did. Her negative remarks and criticism resurfaced. The hardest to hear were the messages of worthlessness she seemed to enjoy communicating to me, especially when her friends were around. She would often tell me, you are nothing. You will amount to nothing. No one will ever love you. You're going to fail, so why are you even trying? When Judy loved me, I felt so safe. But when she hated me, I felt so ugly and so worthless. Now, before you decide to dislike Judy, I want you to know that I don't. I love her. She was the greatest love of my life. We grew up together, sometimes like sisters, but more often like I was her parent and she was my child. Judy lived a sad, lonely and painful life. She was a very pretty woman with smooth, clear skin and full lips which revealed straight teeth and a gold tooth when she smiled. She had all the physical qualities I wish I had, but sadly, I didn't win the DNA lottery in this respect. She was born to a residential school survivor who drank herself to death at 52 years old and a mean drunk of a father. My grandfather Joe eventually sobered up and became a good man before he died on December 29, 1988. And at 59 years old, some people in Green Lake referred to Judy as weeping again, meaning throw away or garbage. In retrospect, it makes sense to me now that she used to summon me not by my name, but by my meaning. Ugly. Judy told me that when she was a baby, her eldest sister, Cecile, and her middle sister, Della, were often left to take care of themselves and take care of her as an infant. They were all little girls who should never have been left on their own. But that's what booze does. It makes it all right to leave your children alone, Even if they are only babies themselves. As the story goes, my mom was found one day by her grandfather Philip in a potato sack near the garbage. Hence the nickname. We've been a gun after this day, Judy lived with her grandparents, Philip and Maria McCallum. People knew Marie as Mully and and her maiden name was Oban. I referred to Maria Tapan, great grandparent, and she was my best friend when she passed away in 1991. I don't know what kind of life my mom had with my great grandparents raising her. I do know, however, from direct experience. They were strict, hard working, and when a beating came, it was bad. You could never sit down for a moment as there was always work to do. Even though they lived in the tiniest house, we either had to haul water, pick berries, wash clothes on a washboard, hang wet clothes, gather firewood, stretch and flesh hides, wash the dishes, clean up around the yard. I never did see alcohol in their home, nor did I ever see them drink. But that could have been a different story when my mom was little. I don't know. What I do know of Judy is that she was seven years old when she was diagnosed with tuberculosis. She did not understand English when she was taken to Fort Sands Sanatorium, an Indian hospital about 600 km away from Green Lake in southern Saskatchewan. She did not return home until she was 11 or 12 years old. Since my family was poor and traveled only by horse and wagon, they never did visit my mom. Judy told me that when she returned home with one less lung in her chest, she only spoke English and she had to relearn Cree and Michif. My mom never did tell me how she was taken to Fort sand or what happened to her there. However, recent news reports by former patients of Fort sand have alleged physical and sexual abuse as well as medical experimentation. A, recent class action filing suggests that these experiences were common amongst all of the indigenous children who lived in that hospital. The only other stories Judy ever shared with me about her childhood or her youth was that when she was eight months pregnant with me, her dad Joe was pretty drunk when he beat her with a 2x4. She said she was beaten so badly she was sure that he had killed me. She also told me another story that sometime before getting pregnant with me, she was gang raped in her community. She said some of those older boys and men who raped her eventually married into our extended family. Two months after Judy gave birth to me in July 1973. She married a man from a reservation further north of Green Lake. She had two more children with him.
I still carry vivid memories of him. He was violent, and he seemed to me to be so incredibly evil. I watched him beat and raped my mom. I watched him bring other women to their home. And he was sadistic in his treatment of me. When Judy finally left him in 1977, she was only permitted to leave with one of his children, not both. So she made the heartbreaking decision to leave my 3 year old sister behind because my brother was still a baby who required nursing. After this day, Judy was never the same. She started drinking, beating me, leaving me to care for my baby brother alone, sometimes for days. This is when she started to hate me. She invited drunks and pedophiles into our home with no regard for my safety. She often left me alone with them, and I was forced to submit to their twisted and sick desires. Every weekend, she chased men and money and alcohol. After years of being in and out of foster care because of her abuse and neglect, she dropped my brother and I off at Lebret Indian Residential School. At the time, I believed it was so she could go live her life with her physically and sexually abusive second husband. But these days, I prefer to believe that she left us there to protect us from him. Little did my brother and I know what sort of horrific treatment waited for us inside the walls of that residential school. As I got older, the less I liked Judy. I mean, I still loved her like no one else, but I didn't like her. She usually only ever called on me to pay her rent, make her car payment, or loan her money. And although she'd been sober since 1985, she was what they call a dry drunk. She didn't address her trauma or the trauma she caused me and my brother. She lived in denial and with depression. I could often see her rage simmering behind the cold, hard stares she would give me. Judy died of sudden heart failure in the back seat of her dodge car on August 25, 2015. She was the same age as her dad when he died. 59 years old.
The last thing she said, according to her friend who was driving them to see a now confirmed fake medicine man in Loon Lake, was I, should have called Ally. Ally or Alicia. My eldest daughter was arguably Judy's favorite human and the one who brought out the most love in her. The week before Judy passed, she had a premonition that she was going to die. According to her neighbor who came over to talk to me while I was cleaning out her apartment. Because of her premonition, she called me many times. I did not pick up. She left me text messages. I did not respond. Her messages were simple. I love you, my daughter. That's it. That's my story for today for Truth and Reconciliation Day 2023. Thank you for listening. Thank you for sharing this podcast with people in your network, in your workplace. And I hope that you do something to either connect with community or with family, or with your indigen friends and colleagues this National Truth and Reconciliation Day. Until next time, take care everyone. This episode was recorded on the ancestral, traditional and unseated territory of the Tsleil Waututh Nation.